


No Sound to Hide Behind

by lesbianophelia



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Panem AU, a little darker than my usual fare, avox!Peeta, victor!Katniss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:52:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2698607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianophelia/pseuds/lesbianophelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss Everdeen, sole victor of the 74th Hunger Games, really ought to know better than to make a habit of coming home to Peeta Mellark. Title from "Car Radio" by Twenty One Pilots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Victor And The Avox

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreenWool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenWool/gifts).



> a long, long time ago, someone anonymously prompted me on Tumblr to write a fic "where Peeta is Katniss' servant." It snowballed out of control, and thanks to a lot of help (planning and beta-ing) from my beta, Gentlemama, I planned this story. 
> 
> And then Greenwool (yesscoolverygoodok on tumblr and just all around awesome person) helped me endlessly with Peeta's character and certain plot details would not even exist if not for her help. As such, I humbly offer this little fic as a birthday gift/a general thank you for being so awesome.
> 
> (Warning: Avox!Peeta. Happily Ever After is guaranteed. But. like. He is an avox.)

 

He’s the last visitor she has. He actually startles her. She had been so sure that Gale was the last one. That she was going to be able to hide in silence for the last little while, fighting back her tears until she could cry on the train in privacy. But then the door cracks open and he steps in.

 

He looks out of sorts. His hair looks disheveled. Like maybe he’s been running his hands through it. He had been so put together, just a few hours earlier, when she traded at the bakery and he smiled at her over his father’s shoulder. It’s quiet for a second, and then he joins her on the sit on the velvet couch. She should have known that he would come to see her off. Memories surge through her. Of him kissing her. Of her trying to convince herself it was nothing, even as she went home with lips that felt different and a smile so wide she had to press her hand against her mouth just to contain it.

 

It got harder and harder going through the days without feeling Peeta’s lips on hers. And he must have felt the same way because, eventually, every time they saw each other – whether they met in town or while she was trading at the bakery – they would disappear into the back alleys between the stores and kiss in the privacy of those walls.

 

Of course it wasn’t _nothing_. It meant as much to Peeta Mellark as it did to her, and, evidently, he’s going to be the one to admit to that first.

 

“I had to,” she says, and her voice is too weak. “I couldn’t let her go.”

 

“I know,” he murmurs. “But you’re going to come home. Safe and sound. Okay?”

 

She nods. “She made me promise.”

 

“And so am I. Okay?” he asks, his voice quiet. “Will you promise me, too?”

 

She can’t help herself. She surges forward and presses her lips to his. Her hands fist in his shirt, no doubt wrinkling the fabric of his ironed reaping shirt. He kisses her right back. She thinks he might be trying to speak. Trying to say something. But that’s no good.

 

“I really liked kissing you,” she finally says.

 

He looks like he’s in pain. “Katniss. Don’t put yourself in the past tense.”

 

“You know you can’t wait for me, right? I might not come home. And . . . if I don’t,” she begins, but then stops. He never said he would wait for her. Never said that he planned on marrying her. Never even took her out. “I want you to get married. To have a toasting and be happy. Okay? Is that – Peeta, is that something you can do for me?”

 

He murmurs something. She swallows it with a kiss. “You’re coming home,” he says, pulling away. “You’re coming home, and I’m taking you out on a date,” he murmurs. “But until then . . . do you have a token? For the arena?”

 

She shakes her head. He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces something. She’s not sure what, at first. It takes a moment for her to place it.

 

“It’s a mockingjay,” she whispers, reaching out to touch the pin he’s offering. It’s gold. Or looks like it, at least. A bird with an arrow in its mouth, wings stretched out just slightly past the circle that encircles it.

 

“That’s right,” he says. “Will you wear it, Katniss?”

 

“Where did you get this?”

 

“It was my aunt’s,” he says.

 

“You might not get it . . . I might not be able to give it back,” she says. Somehow, the thought of his aunt’s pretty pin coming home in a pine box with his girlfriend’s dead body seems like it wouldn’t work. He shakes his head.

 

“It’s a gift. You don’t have to give it back. Will you wear it?” he asks again. She nods and he pins it to her dress. Up high. Closer to her shoulder than to her breast.

 

She can’t help herself. Good intentions of helping him to let go of her be damned, she grabs him again. Kisses him until the peacekeepers order him out.

\--

 

After the games, he’s the only one in the district who doesn’t share her last name and somehow doesn’t hate her. They never had much of a bond before she kissed him, all those months ago – no, she had a bond with him, from the moment he tossed her that bread, but the more time she spends near him, the more convinced she becomes that he’s just genuinely _kind_. Maybe he does that sort of thing all the time. And he seems to like her.

He’s just as happy to see her as she hopes that he would be. She doesn’t get the chance to see him right away, but then she sees him in the back of the bakery once things have died down, and the way he kisses her is even better, somehow. Leisurely. Not panicked.

Then he pulls back and sighs. “Oh. I hope that was okay,” he says.

She nods. “Yes. Of course it’s okay.”

Either way, she’s never upset when he’s the one at the counter when she goes to the bakery. He always smiles at her, like he’s pleased to see her. Always makes small talk with her, about the weather, or how things are in school. What she’s missing. Never about the Peacekeepers that are standing just a few feet away, manning the Square.  
  


It’s almost like he doesn’t blame her for the fact that they’re there. Which is strange. She always faces so many whispers on her way into Town, so many stares and scowls. She doesn’t blame them for blaming her, though. She knows that it’s her fault that the Peacekeepers flooded the District after her victory in the Games. Knows that she’s the reason that the fence is constantly electrified now. Knows that every single time someone is whipped or put in the stocks, it falls on her. And maybe on Haymitch, to a lesser degree, for helping her to win.

 

Peeta Mellark, apparently, didn’t get that message. He leans across the counter, smiles at her, and talks with her for however long he can before she has to place her order. The cynical part of her wants to think that he knows that she’s their best customer. That he’s just trying to make ends meet for his family. But it’s not like she _minds_ it, exactly. She’s pleased enough that someone even tries to be on her good side. Even if he looks slightly pained the day he cracks a joke and she drops a particularly big tip into the jar on the counter. Like that wasn’t why he did it.

 

That’s when the doubt starts to creep in. And about the same time that Peeta starts to root himself inside of her. It gets to the point where, even if his brothers are manning the counters, they’ll duck into the back and send him out. And it can’t be because he’s the only one willing to deal with her, right? She hopes not, at least.

 

“ _Katniss_!” he always says, as if she’s the bright spot of his day. Maybe his week.

 

She’s not sure when it gets to the point that it’s the highlight of her day or week to see him, but it happens. She can feel the tightness in her chest lighten when the bakery comes into sight on very bad days. Can feel the panic that once came with the way everyone used to look at her melt away when she sees him through the glass window.

He’s _kind_. And even though she’s sure, after everything that she’s done in the arena, she really doesn’t deserve his kindness, she can revel in it.   
  


He makes good on his promise to take her out on a date. Of course, there’s nowhere for them to really go in District Twelve.. He insists on cooking, though. Her mother and sister are out on a house call, helping to deliver a baby.

 

She doesn’t mind that it’s in the Victor’s Village. Far away from all of the others. Peeta seems to. Seems to think that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with the idea of showing off the fact that he’s with the district pariah. When she told him that he might be shunned, he had rolled his eyes.

 

“What do they think you did?” he asked.

 

“I turned my back on my distract partner,” Katniss said.

 

“You did what you had to do. Did what it took to survive,” Peeta had returned.

 

Katniss rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Exactly. They only like a victor in theory.”

 

“Well, I don’t blame them,” Peeta said, eyebrows raised. “I like you in theory, too.”

 

She rolled her eyes.

 

“No. I do. I like you in theory. And in practice,” he said.

 

So tonight, she lets him cook for her. Lets him bake and helps him to put a stew together. Lets him steal kisses all through the evening. Even takes him by the hand and drags him up the stairs under the pretense of giving him the tour.

 

“I thought of you, in the arena,” she breathes. “Wondered if you were watching.”

 

“I was watching,” he assures her.

 

“Wondered if you’d actually listen to me, about moving on.”

 

He kisses his way down her neck and to her shoulder, where he looks up, as if to make sure that it’s okay for him to push the sleeve of her shirt down. She nods. “I wanted to talk to you about that, actually,” Peeta says, his voice breathy. “While you were gone, I met this girl. And we got engaged . . . had a couple of kids. It was great, really. I think you’ll like her.”

 

“Shut up,” she says, even as she backs up until her legs hit the bed and she knows that it’s safe to sit. He comes with her.

 

“I’m not gonna get over you, Katniss,” he assures her, eyes bright and sincere and pleading as he looks up at her. “You’re it for me.”

 

She wants badly to stop this. To remind him that he’s still young and relatively _free_ and she’s going to be carted off to the Capitol at least once a year. “I have to leave for the tour in a couple of weeks,” she says instead.

 

“I know,” he says. “And then they have to leave you alone until the summer.”

 

“Where I’ll be gone for . . . weeks? Months?”

 

“Yeah. You’ll be gone,” he agrees. “But then you’ll come back. And I’ll be waiting.”

 

“You want this, don’t you?” she whispers.

 

“Do you?” he asks.

 

“So badly,” she admits, and it isn’t even a lie.

 

He nods, and then hesitates, as if he’s thinking about it. “Katniss. You don’t have to worry so much. I’m here.”

 

And he is. Until he’s not.

\--

 

The thought of Peeta is the one thing that brings her home from the Victory Tour, including when the old man in District Eleven is shot for saluting her the way that she saluted Rue after the muttations came and tore her to shreds.

 

She’s still not sure if her ally’s death was a matter of wanting to entertain the audience so much as it was a way for them to remind Katniss of the game that she was playing. Of who was in charge. But her hands shake all the way through the stop in Eleven because she was just about to salute the man back when they put a bullet through his brain.

 

She cries in her bed that night. Holds her fist to her mouth and thinks of the way that Peeta stayed with her, when she asked. About how he held her in his arms, just loosely enough not to crush her, and whispered _always_ when he thought that she was asleep.

 

Of course, that thought, Peeta holding her body close to his, leads to other thoughts. More dangerous thoughts. Hopes, really. About him staying with her again when she gets home. About him climbing into her bed. Their bodies moving in sync, despite their lack of practice. The dreamless sleep that she was finally able to sink into.

 

She thinks of him when Cinna finds a way to incorporate the pin into each and every outfit. Wonders if he’s looking at the screen and waiting for her to come back. But he isn’t. And she’s not sure if it’s because of how they celebrated her kills when she was in the Capitol, or because his mother talked some sense into him, but he’s not waiting for her at the station.

 

She doesn’t even see him at the Harvest Festival.

 

She comes to the bakery the next week with an apology on her lips. Extra money tucked into her pocket. She’s been trying hard to make a habit of stuffing the tip jar, ever since Peeta let it slip that they ate stale bread. She convinces herself that it’s not charity. He has no choice but to take it, of course. Sometimes, she even tries to do it when he isn’t looking.

 

But Peeta isn’t at the counter that day. His mother is, and she fixes Katniss with a glare that’s enough to send her hurrying out without a word. Or her bread. She’ll have to send Prim back. Because now it’s certain. Peeta _hates_ her.

 

He must hate her. She doesn’t blame him for it, either. It’s probably a good idea, distancing himself from her. She’s done it now. Lost the only ally she had that wasn’t bound to her in some form or another. She has herself angry to the point of tears one night, beating at her pillow and resisting the urge to scream that Peeta _promised_ when Prim asks what’s wrong. Haymitch comes over for dinner, and for what must be the first time, actually gives a shit when she doesn’t come down for dinner. He lets himself into her room and stares at her.

 

“Guess you heard about that boyfriend of yours,” he says. And she screams at him. Horrible, horrible things. Whatever sympathy Haymitch was going to offer her is drowned out. Eventually, he gives up.

 

\--

 

It's been months before she gets the chance to see Peeta again. When she sees him, it’s after quite a few mostly pointless visits to the Capitol. She’s getting back to her quarters – the same floor in the training center that she stayed in during the days before her games. As if that is supposed to make her feel _safe_ here. She wonders if that’s a side effect of the games. Maybe she’s never going to feel safe again. Maybe she never _will_ be safe again.

She wonders why Haymitch helped her win. Maybe she really did make a bad impression and he hates her. Though, that seems unlikely. Peeta had made a comment, once. Had laughed when she complained about Haymitch and said, “I’m sorry, but it’s no wonder you hate him. You’re just alike.”

 

She tries not to think about that. Tries not to think about Peeta, even though she has to wear the mockingjay pin everywhere, now. It’s a part of her image.

 

She leans against the wall and hooks her finger through the strap of her ridiculous high heels, sighing in relief when it falls from her foot and to the floor. They have her mockingjay on the buckles of the shoes. She’s not sure why.  She uses her toes to peel the other one off. Before she even has the chance to kneel and pick them up – she’s reveling in being back to her natural height and stretching her back for possibly a few moments too long – someone else does. She thanks them, her voice quiet, like it always is when she speaks to the wordless servants. Effie Trinket would probably snap at her. Say that the servant boy is just _doing his job, Katniss!_

                                                                                   

But then he looks up at her, those blue eyes so familiar, freezing her in place. And then he’s gone. Taking her shoes with him. She’s not sure where he brings them. Or if it’s even him.

No. It can’t be him. Peeta never had facial hair, for one. And for another, she honestly tricked herself into thinking he was in District Twelve. Safe and sound and distancing himself from her because he finally realized that would be best. It’s not like she spends enough time in Town to prove herself wrong.

 

She spends the night – her last in the Capitol, thankfully – in her bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to convince herself that it wasn’t him.

It isn’t him. It isn’t him. It isn’t him. It isn’t him. It _can’t_ be him, because somehow it was easier for her to think that he hated her. It’s selfish that that’s why she’s losing sleep. But she knew that he was either dead or hating her, and judging by the way that Haymitch kept looking at her, death seemed like the more likely alternative. Of course, she didn’t listen to him. She never does.

 

The thought that he’s alive should be enough. And yet, it isn’t. She wonders if the crippling guilt will ever stop. Wonders if they put him on her floor as a warning. As a punishment. If that’s why he’s a servant in the first place. She doubts that there’s much more they could do to him. So it must be for her. They must be reminding her yet again that the game she’s playing is _theirs_ and not hers. That she’s nothing more than a piece, so easily flipped over. Manipulated. Knocked flat on her back.

_Avoxes_ , she learns, are traitors. The Capitol does something to their tongues, apparently. Cut them. So they can’t speak. And then, even worse, they make them work for the Capitol. For the very people who they hated enough to _betray_. Whatever that means. She can’t help but to wonder what counts as a betrayal.

 

It’s not Peeta. It can’t be Peeta. Maybe . . . maybe there’s a multitude of blond haired blue eyed traitors. It really could have been anyone. She never pays that much attention to the servants – never had any reason to, until now.

 

Prim wants to know what’s wrong when she gets home and can’t seem to act normally. But how is she supposed to explain this? How is she supposed to tell her little sister, who she wants so desperately to protect, what happened to Peeta? And how it’s her fault. All her fault. Just like everything else.

The nightmares only get worse the more she hears about him. About how he was out after curfew – he fell asleep in the Square, some say, watching the footage of her at the Capitol party. Others say he was just wandering. She knows that he has bad dreams. But all of the stories end the same way. With Peeta being taken in by Peacekeepers. Cuffed and thrown onto the first train to the Capitol.

So she doesn’t tell Prim about it when she gets home, even though her sister asks over and over again about what she can do to make it better. And she doesn’t talk to Haymitch about it, even though he’s probably the single person that she could mention this to. Instead, she holes herself up in her room. Pretends that she’s sleeping when Prim bangs on the – locked – door. She isn’t sleeping, though. She never sleeps. Instead, she just hides under the covers. In the closet, sometimes. Runs her fingers over her lips and tries and _fails_ to imagine not having a tongue.

\--

She hasn’t been mentoring for very long at all, but she already hates it. Hates the fact that her tributes – both seam folk from District Twelve who, by all accounts, should be taking her advice – like Haymitch better than they like her.

Probably because she doesn’t buy into their stupid love story. Haymitch claims that it’s brilliant. That it’s going to give them an edge. Katniss doesn’t see it that way.

_“It’s not going to work!” she said when_ _she joined them at breakfast that first day and they told her all about what their plan was. “What are we supposed to do? Market them as a pair and then send them into the arena to_ kill _each other?”_

_“It’s not like that!” the girl protested, and Katniss narrowed her eyes at her. She knew this girl. Or, well, knew of her. They were probably neighbors, before Katniss moved to the Victor’s Village and was shunned by practically everyone in the District. Except – no. She can’t -- shouldn’t -- think about him._

_“What? Do you think that your_ I love you _is gonna sound sincere when you’re trying to slit his throat?” she asks. “I say no. You’re individuals. We’ll show you off as individuals. It’s your best shot.”_

_The boy shook his head. “No. You won’t. Haymitch already told us it was a good idea.”_

_“Sorry, sweetheart,” Haymitch said, tossing the contents of his glass back with a little shrug. “Guess I forgot I wasn’t doing it alone this time around.”_

She almost doubts that it’s going to get any easier. Especially since neither of the tributes can look her in the eye. Maybe it’s different. They never do play Haymitch’s games on the screen during recaps. Katniss’ games, on the other hand, have been played countless times this past year. Are they _afraid_ of her? Because they know that she can – and once did – kill without a second thought?

They show that clip a lot. Rue being attacked by a wolf and Katniss killing the tribute that darted through the woods at the sound of the cannon. All she knew was that Rue was dead. The muttation was gone. Off to find its next victim. But then Katniss had done it. Had killed her first tribute out of something other than self defense. The others could be written off. She dropped the Tracker Jacker nest because she was up a tree. But that was because she was scared and because Rue was _dead_.

Of course, from what Prim says, that’s about the time that the Peacekeepers came in. On the train with the rest of the Capitolites. The reporters that interviewed their families for the final eight. So she’s not sure what the tributes hate her for, and she’s not sure that she wants to know.

 

And Peeta. He’s there, too. That’s the other terrible part. Seeing him out of the corner of her eye, but never when Effie isn’t around. Never when Katniss could risk talking to him. He watches her, but there is not a hint of contempt in his eyes.

 

She almost wishes that there was. That he was angry with her.

The tributes are in training – finally – and she and Haymitch and Effie get to have lunch by themselves. It’s better without the two tributes practically falling over themselves to try to be affectionate. Haymitch doesn’t seem to think it’s an act, but Katniss does.

“I just don’t feel like this is fair.”

“This is the Hunger Games, sweetheart,” Haymitch says, rolling his eyes. “No one ever said anything about fair. You know what they said? They said it’s our job to get those kids out of there. And if one of them is gonna come out alive, it sure as hell isn’t gonna be because they’re unlikable.”

“So, we’re supposed to believe that they love each other enough to _die_ for each other? Or enough to let the other die for them?” Katniss asks.

“Young love,” Haymitch says. “No one ever said we have to market them as being _smart_.”

“How are we supposed to market them, then?” Katniss asks. “It’s not as if they’re anything other than doomed.”

“Now, that’s not a very good attitude,” Effie chides. “You should be grateful that the children aren’t here.”

“I think this is a horrible idea,” she says, as if her opinion isn’t obvious by now.

 

“My friends all want to know how this will work out,” Effie says. “Of course, I’ve been very mysterious. You two haven’t given me all of the details –”

“Good luck getting them out of him,” Katniss says. “He won’t even tell me.”

“Interrupting is rude, Katniss,” Effie says. Haymitch snorts. “Now, my friends have their reservations, naturally, with them being from the coal district, but they _see_ it. One of them has her suspicions about them being in love just from the way that he held onto her during the tribute parade, you know. And I’ve been saying – and this is very clever of me, I think – that if you put enough pressure on coal, it turns to pearls.”

That’s not true. She glances at Haymitch, expecting to see him trying to not laugh, but he doesn’t look amused at all. He’s focused over Katniss’ shoulder, face hard. She looks over her shoulder, breath hitching in her throat when she realizes what he’s looking at. She’s been so caught up on the argument that she doesn’t even notice that it’s Peeta who has been filling their water glasses. Until now.

He’s standing at the wall, hands clasped in front of him, skin striking, though pale, against the white of his pristine uniform. His head is bowed so low that she can’t see his face. But she recognizes the beard from the last time she saw him. But if Haymitch looks as mad as she feels, then what she’s been struggling with must be true. She tries to stand up, but Effie reaches over and wraps a hand around her wrist, as casually as if it’s just a normal piece of their conversation. Her manicured nails are practically digging into Katniss’ skin. She thinks maybe it’s on purpose.

“We do need to make a decision, however,” she continues, stopping to take a sip of her drink before she adds, “and you two need to stop being so negative in front of the children! Honestly. Enough fighting.”

“That’s ironic,” Katniss says, rubbing at her skin once Effie lets go of her. They both shoot her warning glances, but she doesn’t care. Peeta comes by to offer her more food, but she shakes her head, unable to look at him.

She thinks she can feel Peeta staring at the back of her head, even if it impossible with the way his head was bowed. When the tributes come back from training, she fakes sick in her bedroom. Tries to sleep – and fails miserably.

Haymitch finds her on the roof. She’s not sure why she always ends up there, but she does. She didn’t realize that Haymitch had noticed, but he clearly did. She pulls her sweatshirt around her a little bit more tightly.

“He really was your boyfriend,” Haymitch accuses, even though his voice is gentle.

She swallows hard. Tries to pretend like the past tense doesn’t bother her even though it does. “Not really,” she says. It isn’t a lie. But she does know more about him than she should. Like the fact that he likes the colors in the fall and that rainy days don’t bother him as much as they do her. That’s nothing at all, really. It just felt like everything at the time.

“Well, I didn’t expect you to be in love with the baker’s kid,” Haymitch says. “But that’s who he is, isn’t he?”

She nods.

“Damn it.”

She nods again. “What do I do, Haymitch?”

“Nothing you can do. But it’s certainly not helping him if you refuse to let him do his job.”

Oh. She didn’t realize it was possible for her to feel any guiltier, and yet, somehow, she does. “It’s my fault, that he’s here,” she guesses.

“No. He was out past curfew,” Haymitch says, and then sighs. “That’s not quite right either. It was the peacekeeper who caused the scene. Violated a lot of rules. Codes of conduct. All that stuff you and I can get away with avoiding,” he says, sitting down beside her. “But it’s not your fault he’s here, sweetheart. You can’t live like that. Blaming every shitty thing on yourself.”

She wipes at her eyes. Haymitch pretends not to notice her tears, and she can’t help but to appreciate it.

“So let him give you your potatoes. Shovel ‘em down. Or don’t. But for goodness’ sake, let him give them to you.”

She nods. “I will.”

She knows where the hot chocolate is. She’s had more than enough breakfasts in the Capitol to know which of the unmarked shiny containers has the coffee that she still hates and which one has her drink of choice. But Haymitch’s instructions are ringing in her ears. _It’s certainly not helping him if you refuse to let him do his job._

So even though she knows that she’s supposed to serve herself, and that Peeta is just standing by the side of the table for any extra assistance, she clears her throat. “Where’s the hot chocolate?” she asks.

He looks a little startled to be spoken to so directly, but recovers quickly enough. Steps forward and takes the empty mug out of her hands – fingertips brushing the way that they did, once, when he handed a bag of cheese buns over. This seems more significant, though. He’s careful not to linger, stepping back and filling her mug. Effie is gushing about how _romantic_ it is, their tributes being in love. How they’ve never had a love story before. All Katniss can focus on is Peeta. And that damn facial hair. She wonders what he thinks of it.

His eyes flit up to hers, for only half of a second, but it’s long enough. She tries to search them. Tries to find some indication that he hates her as much as he _should_ , but there’s nothing, really. At least, not before his eyes find the ground again and he gives her now-full mug back. She wants to ask him for more help. Wants to talk to him. To tell him that his family is safe. That she knows now that he didn’t leave, even though he didn’t know she was mad.

But she can’t. She can’t find the words and even if she could she’s terrified of getting him in – _more_ – trouble. It’s not as though she hasn’t already ruined the poor boy’s life.

“Thanks,” she breathes, just quiet enough for Effie not to notice. She’s not even entirely certain that Peeta noticed, either. If he did, he doesn’t show it at all.

“Don’t you think, Katniss?” Haymitch asks, very pointedly. Right. She’s supposed to be mentoring. Not crying over the boy who serves their meals.

“Sorry, what?” she asks, sitting down. She tries to be present for the meal, to pay attention and help, even if she doesn’t agree with their methods in the slightest. Peeta doesn’t help with that. He brings a small plate of rolls over to her, setting it down just beside her. She didn’t ask for them, but she doesn’t want to get him in trouble. She glances over, and he nods, very quickly, and steps back into place.

She doesn’t really even hear most of what the others are saying. But Effie taught her well, and she manages to smile and nod when it’s appropriate. And then, after breakfast, she manages to fake a very unladylike stomach ache and hole herself up in her room. Effie tries checking up on her. Tries to offer her medicine and coax her out of the safety of the nest she makes with her blankets, but she refuses to move.

It continues like this for a little while. Peeta being overly helpful during mealtimes and Katniss barely even tasting her food. It feels like a betrayal, almost, that she was able to keep her tongue.   
  


She hates it. Hates everything about this. She’s starting to realize why Haymitch always has a drink in his hand. Has he gone through this? Is that why he had tried comforting her? Being a Victor, she decides, is a miserable business.

She already knew that she hated her new life. She’s known since not long after she got back to District Twelve. It’s horrible, being carted back and forth from the Capitol to Twelve. Haymitch commented drily, once, that it could be much worse, so she tries to not complain too much in front of him, but she can’t stand it. Can’t stand being hated at home and being adored in the Capitol, but for all the wrong reasons.

The more time she spends away from Twelve, pouting her lips for the camera and letting Cinna adjust her makeup, the more despicable she seems even to herself. They hate her, and they have every right in the world to. She is not one of them. She is not a Capitolite. She’s finding it harder and harder to realize who she is, exactly. Who they’ve turned her into.

But she does her job, and she tries to ignore the way that the others stare at her. The Victors who have to escort the wealthiest to parties. Finnick Odair especially. They haven’t been around each other too much, but whenever they are, he looks at her like he knows a sad secret that she doesn’t know. So she grits her teeth and smiles for the camera and plugs whatever new perfume or makeup they want her to sell on camera.

She does it. But she hates it. She hates it so much. Hates the heels that she has to wear. Hates the smells. The feel of the fabric against her skin, either too soft, like nothing at all, or coarse and scratchy but used for the sake of aesthetic. They dress her as a coal miner. A baker. A huntress. A Capitolite – though that one doesn’t seem to be on purpose. It’s to sell something. She’s not sure what. She’s lost track. There have been too many of these shoots.

 

The worst is the time that they dress her in an outfit remarkably like the one she wore as a tribute. Her nightmares are particularly bad that night, even if the fabric hadn’t been exactly the same. Even if she was miles away from danger. Though something tells that this . . . modeling business is much more dangerous than Haymitch has managed to let on.

 

And yet she’s still supposed to smile. Supposed to pretend as if the one person who managed to keep her grounded in this new and horrible life of hers isn’t waiting in the tribute quarters. Living a life he doesn’t deserve to have to live. Doing . . . she’s not sure what he’s doing. But it can’t be anything good, really. Can it?

 

But then, thinking of everything Peeta deserves and can’t have is a dangerous list to make. So she tried her hardest to stop that train of thought before it can make it anywhere. If things were fair – Peeta would be there. He would be picking up his family’s Parcel Day box up, just like he always does, and he would look straight at Katniss, where she likes to balance on a crate behind the shoeshop, craning her next to look over the fence at the happy district, and he would give her that shy little wave that she _misses_ more than she probably has the right to.

She wonders about his family. She’s been doing that more and more often lately, even with Prim picking up their bread. Are they getting less rations than usual this Parcel Day? What is that like, having one less place setting around the table at dinnertime? She couldn’t help but to look at the cakes when she’s in town last time – something that had been getting rarer and rarer those days – and notice that they didn’t look as good as they did once.

Would it comfort his family at all to know that he’s alive? She doesn’t think that they know he’s here. Doesn’t think that they’re supposed to. But she is. She’s supposed to know. Supposed to know that she’s being punished just like he is. Otherwise, he could have worked on any other district’s floor. They could have kept him far away from Katniss. Could have had him work somewhere that had nothing to do with her. And yet, here he is. Lurking in the dining room while she eats, head always bowed low, always just in the corner of her vision, or out of it completely. It’s as if he doesn’t want to be a  distraction. Maybe that’s how they trained him. She’s not certain.

How did she never pay so much attention to the servers in her earlier trips to the Capitol? It doesn’t seem fair. But she didn’t know. She didn’t know that they _couldn’t_ speak. Didn’t know that they were traitors. Or even from somewhere other than the Capitol. But now she can’t help but to feel guilty for not even thinking about it until now. For not even _noticing_ who it was that filled their glasses.

Everyone is someone’s Peeta. She aches for the time when Peeta was actually _hers._ She misses him. Badly. Which seems particularly horrible, given that he’s _there_ all the time. But she can’t help herself. She’s spent so many months missing him already, it’s practically a habit by now.

 

He’s always there, just in the corner of her eye. Being careful not to be a distraction, maybe. She’s not sure. He is a distraction, but that’s not his fault. He seems to be doing everything he can to make himself small. His head is always bowed low. His hands are always clasped in front of him, when they’re not sneaking into her line of sight to grab a bowl or platter when she makes the mistake of trying to serve herself.

That’s not a behavior she can attribute to him, though, really. The redheaded girl from last year was always doing the same thing. She seems to have switched to filling water glasses. She and Peeta must swap back and forth. Does it get boring? It must. She feels silly for even wondering.

She always makes the mistake. She has in the year that she’s been a victor more than she could count. Over and over again. Effie likes to snap her fingers at Katniss to try to keep her from serving herself. Likes to say _that’s not your job, Katniss_. She can’t imagine a life like that. Living and being served every day, every meal of her life. She can’t imagine it. She has a hard enough time not being able to gather her own food. She sort of misses squirrel. Wild turkey. The feeling of her bow in her hand. It’s been so long. The electricity on the fence is constantly on in District Twelve, now.

At least they’re not sending avoxes to twelve along with the peacekeepers. If the people at home hate her now, they would even more if she had silent servers at her beck and call in district twelve. They already get angry enough with her going into the capitol and getting this sort of treatment here. And she doesn’t even blame them. This was all so incredible to her, just a year ago, when she was a tribute. She can see it in her tributes today. The way that their eyes widen at the sight of the plates of food. They’re both seam. They’ve never seen a meal like this in their lives before.

Katniss hadn’t, either.

It makes her feel somewhat vindicated in not paying attention to the avoxes last year. That doesn’t make it fair, of course, them being there. Haymitch has noticed, too. She wonders if he’s ever recognized an avox before, or if this is a punishment that’s new and special for her. She’s not sure why he would know what happened to avoxes otherwise. How he would know go to such great lengths to offer her some consolation on the roof that night.

He looked upset, too. More angry than sad. Katniss almost can’t decide which one she is. Angry or sad. It’s something unpleasant. She’d be willing to get that the people in the Capitol – whoever is in charge of this. Maybe President Snow. She’s not sure if that’s too personal, though. Surely he has people who do research for him. Is everyone that angry with her here?

Or, well, everyone except for the Capitol citizens. They still love her. And Peeta . . . he doesn’t seem to hate her half as much as he should. Why is that? Why doesn’t he blame her for what happened on that terrible day? She doesn’t understand it. She blames herself. Maybe she blames herself enough for the both of them. If her nightmares are any indication, she does.

Peeta seems to do a lot of work in the Capitol. Or, at least, in the tribute center. The floor that’s reserved for her and her tributes.

Effie Trinket even makes a comment about him. Saying that he’s a hard worker and that they must be getting the best of the best thanks to Katniss’ recent victory. Her cheeks redden with anger that she doesn’t act on – that she _can’t_ act on - at the insinuation that Peeta was ever once meant to be an avox. At least, not until he made the mistake of being friends with her. Not just friends. More than that.

She’s just not sure what. Not sure what they were. What they are. Where they stood or where they stand, now. It’s hard to tell, with the way Peeta’s head hangs so low. She wishes that she could talk to him. She wants so badly to apologize. But she _can’t_. She can’t speak to him without drawing attention to herself – or _worse_ – to him. So she settles. She knocks a bowl of peas down from the table, trying to make it look like it happens when she reaches for her glass. It’s on purpose. Her elbow wouldn’t normally be bent. The conversation hushes around them, and she drops to her knees beside the table, and Effie is appalled.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she wants desperately for it to sound like she’s talking to someone other than Peeta. She finds his hands in the mess, so warm and strong and familiar underneath the buttery sauce. She grasps his hand tightly. Desperately. Tries to tell him everything that she can’t say out loud. Not here. Not right now.

His eyes lock on hers for the first time. He looks sad. But not angry. What would she say, if she could get the words out? That it was her fault that the peacekeepers came to 12 at all, let alone that they targeted him? Does he not know that? He doesn’t act like it. She wishes that she could find the right words. That she could say them. All too soon, Effie is snapping at her to get up. Peeta stands up quickly and pulls the seat out for her, pushing it in once she’s seated and giving her a fresh napkin before he gets back to work at picking up her mess. Suddenly, she feels very guilty for ruining this. For making more work for him. He really should hate her. She wonders why he doesn’t.

Maybe he does. Maybe he’s just an exceptionally good liar. It’s not as though he could make his distaste for her too obvious. But then there’s something in the way that he looks at her that looks familiar, beneath it all. Maybe not the same way he looked at her when they kissed – there isn’t enough time for that, of course. He can’t risk it at all - but then he’s not angry. Not underneath the layers of shyness and apprehension and what can only be described as _submission_. He looks at her like he still knows her.

Like he still might _like_ her, underneath it all. She’s not at all sure why he would. But she’s not complaining, either. It’s nice to see it. Nice for it to be so familiar, him looking at her that. Like she’s someone that deserves his kindness.

Even if she doesn’t. She doesn’t deserve it at all. But maybe, just like she could in Twelve, she can pretend as if she does deserve it. As if she should be allowed to have someone genuinely care for her other than her sister.

She misses him. She missed him before, but this is worse, him being right there but so out of reach. She wants to _talk_ to him.

_He couldn’t talk back_ , a cynical voice inside her head says. But that can’t be right. This is Peeta. He would be able to communicate with her somehow. She isn’t completely sure what it would take. A piece of paper, maybe? Would they need that? She’s not sure. But she spends a lot of time thinking about it. Wondering what it’s going to take for them to be able to communicate. She misses him. Misses talking with him. Misses the way that he used to be so good at small talk. How he made her interested when he talked about the weather or anything like that. Anything that didn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things. Like the cake order he had to work on. How work has been for him recently.

He liked to joke about her. To say things like “Oh, things here have been great. We found a really big tipper recently.” He made the same joke time after time, but it always made her smile, if nothing else. She misses that. Misses the smile that he learned how to coax out of her. Misses his corny jokes. Misses the way that he used to laugh when they talked. The way that _she_ used to laugh when they talked in the bakery at home. Misses _him_ , really. Misses the way that he used to kiss her. The way that he used to talk to her. Compliment her.

Maybe she’ll spend the rest of her life missing the sound of his voice.

“It’s not your fault,” Haymitch says in passing one day, and she swallows hard. He wasn’t  there, either. He doesn’t know. But he’s trying to be kind. To comfort her.

But it is her fault. If she hadn’t won in the games – if she hadn’t shown how lax the security in District Twelve is by being so good with her bow – then President Snow wouldn’t have sent more Peacekeepers. Less Peacekeepers would mean less of a chance for Peeta to get in trouble.

_It could be Prim_ , she thinks, in a weak attempt at consoling herself.

Of course, that wouldn’t work. The whole damn country is in love with Prim. There would be _riots_ if she wasn’t okay. Maybe that’s enough to make her feel better. She hopes so, at least. That’s the only thing keeping her going.

Even that night, when Prim is in her dreams, dressed in stark white and silent beside Peeta. She wakes up _screaming_ , but Prim isn’t there in the Capitol – thankfully – and there are no instant knocks on her door. She shouldn’t allow herself to be comforted by that. By how consistently her sister tries to pound on the locked door at night. It’s going to end, someday. Whether it’s because Prim has a toasting or because she just learns that it’s time to stop trying.

For now, though, it’s kindness. She makes a mental note to hug her sister when she gets home. And maybe – but not really likely – consider leaving her door unlocked. She probably won’t. Probably can’t. But then, it seems like it could be nice, letting Prim crawl into her bed the way that they used to, when they had two beds to split between the three of them. One bedroom.

Now she has more room than she knows what to do with. The house is much lonelier, and she _hates_ it. Hates the stark, Capitol white. Hates the furniture that’s not as comfortable as it should be, designed for looks and not for real use. Hates the dinner table that’s much too high, and the shiny appliances that keep their foods too cold or too hot. It doesn’t feel _right_. Nothing about the Victor’s Village does. It’s like a piece of Capitol transplanted into her home. Even with the stuff that was moved from their home in the Seam. She doesn’t like it very much. She wonders if any if the other victors feel the same way. Does Haymitch? Did he have a family to share his new house with, once? She can’t imagine what it’s going to be like when Prim leaves.

 

The worst is the day when her tributes refuse to tell her what the _hell_ they did to get a big fat zero in training. It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing they should be allowed to keep from her. It doesn’t seem right. She’s a little bit afraid that Haymitch knows, but he seems about as flabbergasted as she feels, but he laughs. Calls the male tribute _loverboy_ and tells her all about how it’s ridiculous but that it’s fine, whatever they did is their choice and not his, let alone hers. But Katniss doesn’t believe it. Doesn’t think that it’s fair for her to be left in the dark, just like she is in everything else that happened. Whatever it is means that Katniss doesn’t know, has something to do with each other. The girl reaches out and touches the boy’s arm, very casually. There’s something affectionate about it that she almost recognizes from her father and her mother. It makes her angry.

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me!”

“We never asked for your help!” the boy says. “I think we can handle it it. I’m sorry. But we’re fine. Haymitch has it covered. He thinks we’re fine,” he says, sounding slightly frantic. Whatever he’s done, he’s very embarrassed about it. And it’s a little bit annoying. As if he could have done anything worse than what Katniss did. Haymitch is making her angrier and angrier. She _hates_ this. Hates the fact that she’s so in the dark. She can’t help them. They don’t even want for her to help them.

It’s as if she hasn’t helped them. Hasn’t been able to. Or allowed to, really. They’ve chosen Haymitch. Maybe in the hopes that Haymitch will help one of them. Though, Katniss still can’t think of a good answer for how this can end. There will be no happily ever after for the tributes. For, as Haymitch has dubbed them, the _star crossed lovers of District Twelve._ It’s not fair.

She hates it. So she can’t help herself. She ends up getting herself locked in her room before dinner. And snapping to Effie that no one cares when she says that Katniss needs to be present for this very important dinner. She doesn’t care. Instead, she orders plate after plate of food and eats in her room. She’s hates this. Hates the Capitol. Hates that it’s been so long since she’s managed to taste her food the last few times that she’s eaten. It’s really not fair that she’s okay. It’s interesting the way that this has affected her, having Peeta be around.  She usually so loves the food. But she doesn’t. Not this time. Not with Peeta there. She didn’t realize that she was having such a hard time. But she nearly eats herself sick.

It’s interesting. Because then when she tries to drop her plate off over the side of the bed that night, she’s surprised but not upset when it shatters on the floor, the brown broth of the strew running across the floor. She’s not sure just what it is that happened. But it wasn’t too much of an accident. Not really. It doesn’t really help very much, but she can hope that it will.

It’s much more purposeful when she sends the next plate hurtling towards the wall. It’s satisfying when it shatters, but not shattering enough. She grabs the next, and the next, and hopes that it will work. Hopes that this is the way to get rid of her anger. At her tributes. At the whole institution of the Hunger Games in general. At the Capitol, for what they’ve done to Peeta. She runs out of plates all too soon, so she picks up the particularly big pieces and smashes those, next.

She doesn’t know who it is that she expects comes in and turns her bed down at night. She doesn’t think about Peeta, though. And she doesn’t hear anyone coming, because she’s _crying_ , suddenly. So she’s more than a little bit surprised when the door cracks open and Peeta pokes his head through. His eyes widen at the mess.

“Just leave it!” she snaps, as if she has any right in the world to be short with him, after everything he’s been through. “Just leave it alone.”

He hesitates for a moment, then gives her a curt little nod and steps back to the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him. She hates _everything_ , including herself. How could she be so cold to him? Has she gotten him in yet _more_ trouble, for refusing to allow him to do his job. The last bit of the plate slips from her grasp and she lifts a hand – when did she start bleeding? – to her mouth. What has she _done_?

The door opens again, and Peeta lets himself back in. This time, carrying a stack of fresh plates. She doesn’t mean to laugh, and she shouldn’t, because this isn’t funny and none of this should be funny at all, but it is, because Peeta doesn’t seem to think anything of it. He just presents the stack to her as if that’s his job, and she wipes at her eyes roughly. “I’m sorry, Peeta,” she breathes.

His eyes widen and he shakes his head. Right. She shouldn’t know his name. That would make sense. Will she get him in trouble?

“I am. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head again. Then, strangely enough, he holds his hands out, palms up. As if saying that he means no harm. Of course, he means no harm. What could he do? He does it again, and she furrows her eyebrows. He sighs, as if he’s getting frustrated that she doesn’t understand.

“You want me to do it?” she guesses, mirroring the gesture. He nods enthusiastically, offering her a little smile. Then he takes her wrist, examines her palm, and frowns. It’s an exaggerated gesture, she thinks. Not so much him being sad as him _showing_ her that he’s sad. But about what? Is he sad that she hurt herself while she was throwing her tantrum? No. That can’t be right. She’s not entirely sure why it is that he would care, but he certainly seems to. It’s almost nice. Almost reminds her of what it was like when he cared enough about her to ask about her day when he still lived in District Twelve.

_When he could still speak_. His voice floats through her head, making comments about the weather. Or about how _pretty_ she looks in her outfits. He had acted like he just said it because it was true and not because he wanted to get on her good side. She misses him. Misses him a lot. Even though he’s right there. He lets go of her arm and ducks past her, moving into the bathroom and coming out with a damp cloth. She stands, staring at him while he first – very gently – wipes her face, and then wipes the blood from her hands.

_  
This isn’t your job_ , she thinks as he finds a first aid kit that she had no idea was in her room and bandages her palm. It isn’t. He could most certainly send her to the medical wing and be done with her. Why is he doing this? Why is she _letting_ him? Why did she ever accept his kindness? Because she craves it? Or, more likely, because he’s so genuinely kind that it would be impossible to refuse it. It would be like refusing Peeta, himself. She never really could do that, she doesn’t think. Not even now, when she feels incredibly guilty to have him take care of her.

  
“Thanks for the extra plates,” she says, looking at the fresh stack that he set on her bed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make such a mess. Or to make your job harder.”

He shakes his head, as if it couldn’t possibly matter. She frowns.

“No. I shouldn’t have thrown a fit. I just . . . I was so _mad_.”

 

He gives her something that might pass for a smile. And then she can’t help herself. “Can I . . . could I kiss you, Peeta?” she whispers.

 

He nods, and she steps forward, pressing her lips against his. His arms are strong and steady when they wrap around her, holding her closely.

 

“You missed me, too?” she asks.

 

He nods, lowering his lips back down to hers.

After a while, they have no choice but to disentangle. She knows she can only steal so many of his moments. So she lets him check her bandage, and then watches as he finds a trash bag to start putting the mess into. She joins him on the floor and he huffs out a sigh. She freezes, but he’s sort of smiling. The look feels so familiar, and she tries very hard not to cry at the sight of it. Of Peeta, there. Actually in front of her, and not thousands of miles away, the way he’s felt these last several days. He can’t keep her away, so she goes back to helping him to gather the shards up. He tries to push her hands away a couple of times, but it doesn’t work. She’s much too insistent for him, and he has no choice but to let her help.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs again. “It was so brave of you, being willing  to . . . to be with me, when everyone hated me.”

He shakes his head again. Nods towards her.

“What? No. It was. It was so brave.”

He motions towards her, this time, with his hand. She just barely sees it, but it’s there. His thumb and his pinky are tucked together. It’s the salute. The three fingered one that the district gave her that day when she volunteered for her sister and became, if only briefly, someone that they thought was precious and worthy of their love. It didn’t last in Twelve. They hated her by the time her victory tour came around.

That wasn’t the case in the other districts. The other districts chanted her name. Not so much out of excitement, like the Capitol crowds, but more of a cry for vengeance, almost. They liked her salute, too. She’s seen people killed for it. She swallows hard.  It doesn’t mean goodbye to someone you love anymore. Not when it’s talking about her. It’s not fair, because she has no idea what it means, what any of it means. But Peeta knows, clearly. There’s something in the steady look that he gives her that assures her of that.

Whatever it is, Peeta seems to _believe_ in it. To really believe in it. She swallows hard. Because whatever the salute meant, he definitely meant something else, too. That _she’s_ the brave one. Suddenly, she feels like she’s a _liar_ , if he believes that she’s braver than she is. Peeta Mellark is the brave one. Peeta Mellark has always been the brave one, from the time that he risked a beating to throw her a loaf of burnt bread and save her life. When he was the only one in District Twelve that risked it to be seen in public with her. Who decided to like her, even if everyone else hated her. And now here, where the only reasonable reaction is to hate her, he doesn’t seem to have any problem with her. It’s fascinating, really. That he’s taking care of her so diligently even though she hasn’t managed to even thank him for it. She clears her throat.

“You are. Brave. You are the bravest person that I know.”

He shrugs, and her hands find his in the mess, gripping them tightly, trying to say everything that she can’t, just as she did at dinner the other night. He studies their joined hands for a long moment and then offers her a weak little smile.

 

“I saw your brother,” she says, and he freezes. She hates herself for a moment. He won’t want to talk about this. Why would she bring it up? “At the last Parcel Day. I saw him and your father. They’re safe.”

 

He looks close to tears. She should have led with that, she thinks. He presents her with a piece of one of the plates, and she’s not sure what’s going until he sighs, takes it out of her hand, and does it again. “What are you . . .?”

 

He continues. He does this over and over again.

 

“Thank you?” she says, and it’s not supposed to be a question, but it is. He grins, nodding, and then touches his heart. “Oh! You’re thanking me!” she says. “You’re welcome. I’m sorry there isn’t more I can do.”

 

They work in silence for the rest of the time. Even as he stands up and leads her to the bed. He remakes the bed with clean sheets while she watches, and then turns the blankets down. She feels like a toddler when she crawls between the sheets, but then he’s tucking her in, and her eyelids feel remarkably heavy.

She wants him to stay. Wants his protection, even if she’s never been able to protect him. But she doesn’t manage to say it. She can’t. Can’t ask anything of him. It’s not quite fair. And he goes as far as to tuck her in, anyway.

“Goodnight, Peeta,” she manages instead.

He gives her a tiny little nod. Maybe saying the same to her. She isn’t sure. But then, even though he can’t stay, he leans down and brushes a tiny little kiss against her forehead.   
  
  


When she does finally end up falling asleep, her dreams are happier than anything in the recent past. Much, much better than the nightmares that she’s starting to almost expect when she goes to sleep at night.

This is much more pleasant. Not anything that’s too involved. This is just a bunch of little flashes of moments that leave her feeling like maybe things could be good, someday. She can’t remember most of them when she wakes up, but the very last one includes Peeta staying with her. Sitting on the end of the bed, warming one of her hands in both of his. It’s nice. A really nice dream. She ends up talking to him, telling stories and cracking jokes, just the way that they used to when he was in District Twelve with her, and she would lean across the counter to talk to him.

It’s a good dream. It leaves her feeling particularly happy when she wakes up. Warm and content for a long moment, not ready to leave the safety of her bed. The warmth of her sheets. It’s nice. She likes it. A little bit more than her bed at home, even when Prim has been trying to snuggle up in the bed with her, trying to ward the nightmares away. She tries to hold onto the feeling, to the memory of that conversation, however imaginary it is. She has so little happiness in her life now, especially in her dreams. She’s more than willing to appreciate it while she has it.

 

But then, for some reason, she starts to wonder if avoxes can even laugh. It leaves her feeling cold, suddenly, because all that she can think about is that nice, warm, infectious laugh that Peeta has. Or had. She’s not sure. He probably doesn’t have very many excuses to laugh here in the Capitol. But it always made her smile.

She tries to focus on the dream while she works on her tributes. They have to have separate interview training, even if neither of them wants to spend their afternoon with Katniss. She wonders if Haymitch is being mean to the others. If he told the girl that she has the charm of a dead slug, or if he likes them better. She can’t tell. Not exactly. Haymitch does seem to be genuinely fond of her, even if he has a strange way of showing it. But then, these others hate her so much that she’s finding herself wondering.

She gives up part-way through, when the girl insists that Katniss _doesn’t know what she’s talking about_ because she’s “ _never been in love_.” So instead of continuing to fight, Katniss just orders a kettle of hot chocolate. Peeta is the one to bring it, of course, but at least, this time, his presence is some sort of a comfort. Even if he only stays for a moment, gives her a shy little nod, and then disappears down the hallway. She and the girl sit in silence far too long before Effie comes to collect her.

She wishes that there was a way to be alone with Peeta again, but she can’t think of a way to get him to herself without making another huge mess. She’s not sure that she’s _that_ selfish.

The tributes win the country over with their story about their love. Caesar Flickerman only helps to sell it, oohing and _aww_ ing and making them both out to look much more sympathetic than they truly are. The country is just as thrilled as Effie through that they would be. Haymitch’s nickname sticks. By the end of the night, speculation abounds about the _Star Crossed Lovers Of District Twelve_ , and while it’s clear that they’re both terrified with the way that they keep their hands clasped so tightly together, they also look like they’re relieved that it’s working.

She hears them crying that night, where the boy is curled up in her room. She wonders if there’s more that she can do for them. If she should even bother apologizing. They’ve already said their goodbyes, though, and she can’t help but to feel like this moment should be their own. So she leaves them alone. She doesn’t think that she would want Haymitch to intrude on her last moments before the Games.

  
She tries to ignore the noises. Tries to fall asleep. But it leaks into her dreams, and she wakes up screaming as she thinks about some alternate universe where Peeta would have to go into the arena with her.   
  
She’s more surprised than she should be when he comes running into her room. Then he gives her a sad smile and holds her while she sobs.   
  


Peeta and the other avox – the redheaded girl that served them last year – are in the room with them during the countdown. Maybe they don’t waste money on installing screens in the avox quarters. But Katniss has a hard time not looking over her shoulder at Peeta when she realizes that he’s in the room with them.

 

It’s interesting, how horrible the countdown is. Maybe because she remembers her own.

“Ladies and Gentleman, let the seventy-fifth annual Hunger Games begin!” Claudius announces, and she picks at her fingernails in an attempt to distract herself in a way that won’t get her in trouble.  


**_Twenty_ ** **.**

As always, the tributes from each district are staggered. They’re all trying to get a good look at the arena. The terrain is flat. So flat. She doesn’t have any good ideas of where they could hide.  


**_Nineteen_ ** **.**

The boy and girl are separated by about five tributes, but the pedestals are in a circle that bends enough that they can see each other.  


**_Eighteen_ ** **.**

The girl is squinting, as if the sun is in her eyes.  


**_Seventeen_ ** **.**

No. That can’t be it.  


**_Sixteen_ ** **.**

Is she crying?  


**_Fifteen_ ** **.**

The boy is crying too, she thinks. Silent tears rolling down their cheeks.

 

**_Fourteen_ ** **.**

They obviously don’t care about making themselves into targets.

 

**_Thirteen_ ** **.**

The boy reaches his hand out, stretches it towards the girl.

 

**_Twelve_ ** **.**

The girl follows suit. It’s as if they think that they can touch each other. There are murmurs in the room.

 

**_Eleven_ ** **.**

The boy mouths something that she can’t quite get. A countdown of their own, maybe.

 

**_Ten_ ** **.**

The girl nods.

 

**_Nine_ ** **.**

They take twin deep breaths and then, in perfect unison, they step off of their platforms.

 

**_Eight_ ** **.**

The other tributes look a little shaky on their feet.

 

**_Seven_ ** **.**

The star crossed lovers of District Twelve are the first casualties in the Games.

 

**_Six_ ** **.**

Katniss thinks she can hear wailing from the city below. This isn’t _fun._

 

**_Five_ ** **.**

This isn’t how they wanted to see the Star Crossed Lovers die. They must have wanted more entertainment out of them. Must have wanted to see the love story for themselves. Wanted to know how it would unfold. This isn’t the Capitol grade happily ever after that they wanted.

 

**_Four_ ** **.**

The feed flickers, as if threatening to turn off, the way that electricity in the houses in District Twelve do.  But never during the games.

 

**_Three_ ** **.**

They lose signal. Haymitch is infuriatingly calm as he stands up and begins to stuff things into his pockets.

 

**_Two_ ** **.**

“Sweetheart, if there’s anything you want, I’d get it now.”

 

**_One_ ** **.**

“Peeta!”

                                                                                                                     **END PART ONE.**


	2. The Mockingjay And The Ally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a massive section of this chapter is lifted almost straight from Mockingjay, so if you recognize it, that's why. :)

She refuses to let go of Peeta, even once they’re in the hovercraft. The other girl sits beside them, as well, but Peeta’s hand is the one that Katniss is holding. He laces their together, as if it’s completely natural.

“You must have a million questions!” Plutarch Heavensbee says, and he’s annoyingly chipper about the whole thing. “This is the rebellion,” he explains. “You are the mockingjay, Katniss. We hadn’t expected to act so soon, but your tributes kick started things for us with that little stunt!”

“The . . . the mockingjay?” Katniss asks.

He nods. “You are the symbol of the rebellion. People are looking to you.”

The salute. The pin. Hasn’t she seen her Mockingjay a thousand times since the arena? She feels lightheaded. Peeta pulls his hand free just long enough to replace it with the left one and put his right hand on her back, rubbing soothingly.

She turns to him. “You _knew_?”

He shrugs, then seems to think better of it, repositioning so that he has both of his hands free and then holding his hand over his heart and mimicking the beat of it, and then holding his thumb and forefinger apart.

“You . . . in your heart . . . you knew a little?” she guesses. He nods enthusiastically, giving her a smile.

She feels like a liar again. Like she’s not as brave as they all think she is.

“Who is this?” Plutarch asks. “Or, rather, how do you two know each other?”

“From home,” she answers. “District Twelve. He was . . . he’s my friend.”

Peeta nods.

“And the girl?”

“She’s . . .”

The redhead tries to gesture that she and Katniss don’t know each other, but Katniss stops her. Just in case.  


“She’s a friend, too,” she says. “I couldn’t leave them.”

“I understand,” Plutarch says. “But I’m not the one that you’ll need to worry about.”

“Who would –”

“In time,” Haymitch says. “We don’t want to overwhelm the girl.”

“I don’t –”

“Your mentor is right,” Plutarch says. “You should try to get some rest. It’s going to be a while before it’s safe to land.”

Rest seems impossible. But Peeta is there, and he pulls her to rest against his chest. It’s quiet in the compartment, and he strokes her hair absently.

“What a day, huh?” she whispers.

Peeta gives her a little dry chuckle that’s deep in his chest.

“I didn’t know. I had no idea. No . . . no one told me,” she admits. Though maybe Peeta did, with that three fingered salute. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Peeta clenches one hand into a fist. _Fight_. She’s supposed to fight. Then his hand relaxes partially, into her salute. He wants her to fight, and . . . to be the mockingjay? Peeta wants her to be the mockingjay. That makes things somehow easier and more complicated. She can’t quite decide which it is.

Peeta ends up drifting off, lying on his side and pulling her with him. It’s so intimate, sleeping with him so close, but it’s also more than a little comforting. She’s not sure why. She does know, however, that she’s _missed_ him. Even if his pristine white avox uniform is a little bit rough and the hair on his face tickles against her head. It must not be comfortable to wear. She understands that feeling. Understands how horrible some of the outfits that they made her wear are.

But that’s not the same thing.

No wonder Peeta wants her to fight. Doesn’t she owe that to him? Here she’s been feeling guilty, wondering what she could have done differently, and now there’s a chance for her to fix this. Not just for him, but for everyone. For Prim and the redheaded girl and all of the other tributes. For the parents of the Star Crossed Lovers from District Twelve.

And for Peeta. Mostly for Peeta. Because maybe this is her chance. Maybe she can do something.

She wakes up to the sound of the hovercraft lowering. Someone – likely Haymitch, judging by the stale smell – put their jacket on top of her and Peeta. Well, mostly her. But Peeta should be warm, hopefully. Katniss is pressed up against him in a way that’s a little embarrassing.

“Nice nap?” Haymitch asks. He looks almost genuinely curious. She shrugs.

“Where are we?”

“We’re in District Thirteen,” Plutarch answers, and Katniss can see Peeta and the redheaded girl both wiping at their eyes, as if trying to get the sleep out. They both look about as confused as she feels.

“We’ll be safe here,” Haymitch says. Maybe she’s being paranoid, but he sounds slightly wary, and that can’t possibly be a good sign.

\--

“I see you returned with a few more charges,” someone says as they stride down the hallway. Peeta offers the hand that Katniss isn’t grasping to the redheaded avox. Maybe to show that the three of them are a team. “She won’t like that.”

“Mockingjay likes it,” Plutarch grumbles. “We’ll have to figure it out.”

 _Mockingjay. Mockingjay._ When did she become the mockingjay? Peeta’s grip on her hand tightens, only for a second. Maybe it’s meant to be a reassuring gesture. She’s not sure. It feels a little bit wrong, though, for Peeta to be comforting _her_ when it should probably be the other way around.

 

That doesn’t keep her from accepting it, of course.

 

Plutarch was right about him being the easy sell. _President Coin_ , a stern looking woman who leads the rebels in District Thirteen with an iron fist and a rather unapologetic looking face, eyes narrowed, lips pursed, stares at the three of them for a long moment.

 

And then throws the word _traitors_ out.  
  
  
Katniss stands up, stiffening. “They’re not traitors. They hate the Capitol as much as we do.”

 

“They’re betraying the Capitol, then,” Plutarch adds, maybe trying to be helpful. “It could work. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, all of that.”

 

“They could have information that would prove to be useful,” Coin says, as if she’s genuinely considering it. Peeta’s eyes grow wide and he shakes his head. “There are certain ways that we could use them.”

 

“ _Use_ them?” Katniss asks. Peeta puts one hand over the other and pulls them apart, so quickly that his wrists might hurt. Then, looking a little bit frustrated, he taps his temple, as if signaling his brain, and makes the same motion. “He doesn’t know anything,” Katniss says, and she even surprises herself with how fierce she sounds. “They used him. Made him fill water glasses and dish plates. He’s not some sort of double agent.”

 

“Then how do we know we can trust him?”

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Haymitch says. “Sweetheart wants them here. They’re not going to hurt the cause.”

 

“You would be wise to watch your tone, Mr. Abernathy,” President Coin warns, voice low.

 

“They get immunity,” Katniss says, raising her chin.

 

“What’s that?” Plutarch asks. “Speak up.”

 

“Peeta. And . . . all of the avoxes. They will be awarded immunity, they will be rescued at the earliest opportunity, or you will find yourself another mockingjay.”

 

Peeta is staring at her, blue eyes impossibly wide, like he’s surprised. But there’s something else in there. Like . . . _respect_ , maybe. Or as if he’s impressed with her. She’s not sure what it is, but it sends a funny little thrill through her. As if maybe she can do anything if he’s supporting her.

 

“I want these two with me, at all times,” she says.

 

“You want your own avoxes?” Coin asks, and she pales.

 

“I want my _friends_ ,” she says. Maybe it’s an exaggeration, calling the redhead a _friend_ when she doesn’t even know her name. But it seems to work out well enough. “They will be treated like me. Like - like normal citizens of District Thirteen. They will be respected and . . . and _safe_ ,” her voice is getting higher now. She clears her throat, not wanting to sound frantic. “Or you will find yourself another mockingjay.”

 

“Very well. Do you have any other demands?”

 

She turns to look at Peeta. He gives her a sheepish smile and scratches at his chin.

 

“Peeta gets to . . . shave his beard?”

 

He nods.

 

“And . . . You’ll find my sister. And my mother. And Peeta’s family. I want them safe. Protected.”

 

\--

“What’s your name?” Katniss asks once the three of them are alone. The girl and Peeta are technically supposed to share the room across the hall from Katniss’, but she’s not planning on letting Peeta out of her sight. The redhead motions towards herself. Like maybe she’s surprised to be spoken to. “I’m sorry. Um, maybe there’s something to write on?”

She shakes her head, and then holds her left hand up, fingers bent back a little bit. And then, with her right index finger, she traces letter after letter. _L - A - V - I - N - I- A._

“ . . . Lavinia?” Katniss guesses. She nods, looking about as pleased as Peeta usually does when she knows what he’s trying to say. “Lavinia. That’s a pretty name.”

She puts her hand over her heart. Thanking her, maybe. She’s not sure.

“I’m Katniss,” she says, because that seems like the right thing to say. The girl tries and fails to hide a smile, and then rolls her eyes, tapping her temple. “Yeah. I guess you would know. My bad.”

She waves her hand, as if to say that it isn’t a big deal. Katniss can’t help herself but to smile.

“Um. Do you two . . . want to stay with me?” she asks, all too hesitant.

 

Peeta smiles at the phrasing, nodding before he even looks over at _Lavinia_ to see if she wants to stay, too.

 

There are two beds in her compartment. Peeta chooses to stay with her. The word _always_ swims through her mind.

 

She constantly has to record videos. Has to stand in front of the camera and spit out lines that must sound as ridiculous as they feel. At least, if Peeta is any indication. He always stands beside the cameraman and looks like he’s trying not to look amused, depending on how badly she’s botched the line.

 

It’s funny, really, that it’s a comfort. But it feels a little like he’s teasing her, and she _likes_ it. Likes the way that, yet again, he’s the only one that’s willing to treat her like a person.

 

Lavinia moved to her own room after that first night, but Katniss and Peeta have no intentions whatsoever of disentangling.

 

He’s given his razor that next morning, but his hands shake, and she’s reluctant to leave him unsupervised with the single blade. He must be able to tell. He turns to look at her, pleading, and presses the razor into her hand.

 

“Are you sure?” she asks.

 

He nods. She brings him to the mirror and stands by his side, working carefully. He flicks his eyebrows up. She takes it as him saying that he isn’t fragile.

 

“Stay still,” she demands.

 

He makes a show of standing rigidly straight until she’s finished. His eyes remained trained on her face while she lathers the foam between her hands and then over his beard. But it's not because he doesn't trust her. He must trust her a lot, because he doesn't even flinch when she brings the blade to his throat to clean him up there, as well.

 

When they're finished and his face has been thoroughly washed, he takes her wrist and guides her hand to his cheek, letting her feel the soft skin there.

 

“Guess we did pretty well,” she says.

 

He rolls his eyes and nods towards her. To give her the credit, maybe.

 

Peeta remains by her side through it all. When they learn that scripted propos won’t work and send her to the battlefield. They teach him how to film, and he keeps a camera trained on her at all times. They’re going to pick her family up – and Peeta’s too, if they’ll come – but she knows that she has to cooperate. So she speaks. Talks about the extra peacekeepers. About seeing her old classmates whipped for almost nothing and not being able to do a thing about it.

 

And about Peeta. She talks about Peeta, too. It was Haymitch’s suggestion to have them work together. He said something about them being a _team_. Peeta had furrowed his eyebrows. Tapped his lips, as if maybe it wasn’t obvious that he couldn’t speak.

 

“We’ve seen you two,” Haymitch said. “You can communicate just fine. Sweetheart here will translate.”

“What are we supposed to say?” Katniss asked.

Peeta shrugs, eyes still wide.

“Tell them how you know him!” Plutarch suggested. “It’s a wonderful image, really, an avox being friends with the mockingjay.”

“Um, well, we knew each other –”

“Don’t tell me! Save it for the camera!”

“Oh. Um, okay.”

 

Now that they’re out in the meadow near 13, Katniss turns to look at Peeta, waiting for him to signal that he’s ready – or maybe that he’s not ready. He just stands up a little bit straighter and nods. He looks much better in the District Thirteen regulation outfit. More comfortable than he looked in the avox uniform.

Cressida signals when it’s time to start.

“This is Peeta Mellark,” Katniss says, glancing over at Peeta, who is watching her intently. “He’s . . . he’s my . . . he’s from District Twelve. His family runs the bakery.”

She stops there, but Peeta circles his fingers around each other, as if motioning for her to keep going. She furrows her eyebrows at him and he taps his lips.

“And he’s an avox,” Katniss says, looking at Peeta rather than at the camera. He makes the _keep going_ gesture again. Then makes a heart with his hands. “And my – well, I guess he’s my boyfriend. We didn’t have the chance to define that, really, before the Capitol took him from me.”

 

It’s getting to be slightly too much. She’s close to tears now, thinking about this, but then Peeta reaches over and takes her hand. He wants her to keep going.

“They – um, they . . . took his tongue. Cut it out. And made him serve the Capitol. Me, actually. My floor. I think it was to punish us. Both of us. To show me that I had no control. That I couldn’t protect him. He didn’t even do anything. Not as far as I can tell. He was out late. So they took him.”

 

“Why do you think that they knew you wanted to protect Peeta?” Cressida prompts, maybe noticing that Katniss is close to quitting.

“Because he’s . . . he’s my friend. My only friend, really. When we were – he . . .”

 

Peeta takes her hand. She laces their fingers together.

 

“We didn’t meet . . . not officially, for a while,” she murmurs. “But he saved my life when I was a kid.”

“He saved your life?” Cressida asks. She swallows hard. She wants to draw the shades right now. Be finished with this.

“He saved my life,” she repeats. “I was young. My father had . . .” Peeta’s grip on her hand tightens. He wants her to keep going, she thinks. “My father had died in the mines. He . . . all but took my mother with him. She was out of her mind with grief. I was eleven. And I was starving to death. Prim was. My sister. She was so _hungry_. And I just . . .” she trails off. “I tried to sell some of her baby clothes. No one wanted them, of course. They were threadbare. And I tried – I tried going through garbage cans. I wanted something. Anything. So that I didn’t have to go home empty handed.”

It’s stark quiet, other than the birds that flit around from branch to branch. She’s never talked about this out loud.

“There was nothing. And I smelled the bakery. The bread. And I . . . I was going to die under his apple tree, I think. But he . . . He burned bread. On purpose, right?” she looks over at him, finally ready for confirmation. He’s watching her intently. He gives her a sad little nod. “He burnt bread and his mother . . . she,” Katniss looks over at Peeta and decides to leave out the part where she hit him, but she knows Peeta is thinking about it too, “his mother told him to feed it to the pigs. But he didn’t. He . . . gave it to me, instead. And he saved my life.”

It’s quiet.

“And I didn’t get the chance – didn’t work up the nerve to thank him . . . not for years. But one day – one day, when I was trading with his father, he came and took over. And all they had was raisin nut bread. The same stuff he gave me those years ago. And I broke.”

 

Peeta is watching her intently. As if he wasn’t there.

 

“I tried to run. To leave. But – but he called after me. Like he really cared that I was upset. And I thought I could outrun him. But . . . he found me.”

 

It was so cold that day. Raining, just like it was the day that he saved her.

 

 _“What’s the matter?” he_ _had asked._

 

_“You saved my life. And I . . . I couldn’t even thank you.”_

 

_“What are you talking about?” he asked._

 

_“The bread. When we – when we were kids. You saved my life. And I couldn’t even thank you.”_

 

“So anyway. I tried to thank him and he . . . he wouldn’t hear it. Said that it was nothing. Not like he regretted it, but like . . . Like I shouldn’t be indebted to him for the rest of my life.”

 

Everyone – including Peeta – stares at her.

“Can I be finished?” she asks.

Cressida nods, and Peeta doesn’t let go of Katniss, even as she ducks out of the shot.

 

“Is that going to get easier?” she asks.

He shrugs.

“I hadn’t ever even talked about that – out loud – until that day I tried to tell you,” she whispers. She didn’t get much of it out.“You saved my life. I don’t know if you realize that. But you did.”

He reaches out and wipes at her eyes.

“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to . . .”

He waves his hand dismissively, just like Lavinia did. He does look upset, though. More sad than anything.

“I’m okay,” she says. “They’re probably going to want us back soon, though.”

He shrugs again. They sit side by side until someone comes for them, and when they do, it’s just to give them sandwiches for lunch. She ends up nudging Peeta with her elbow to point out a small black bird. He gestures towards the pin and raises his eyebrows, as if in question.

 

Right. She supposes there’s no reason for him to really know. So she nods and then holds up one finger as if to say _wait, I’ll show you_ , and then she whistles a birdcall. The mockingjay cocks its head and whistles the call back. Then, to her surprise, Peeta whistles a few notes of his own. The birds return it easily. She wonders if it’s the first conversation he’s been able to fully participate in for the last couple of months.

 

Music draws mockingjays like blossoms do bees, and in a short while he’s got half a dozen of them perched in the branches over their heads, exchanging melodies. He taps her on the arm and uses a twig to write a word in the dirt.

 

_SING?_

 

Usually, she would decline. Only, she doesn’t want to say no to Peeta. And besides, the song voices are so much different from their whistles, and she wants to share that with him. So before she thinks about what she’s doing, she sings Rue’s four notes, the ones that she used to signal the end of the workday in 11. The notes that ended up as the background music to her murder. The birds don’t know that. They pick up the simple phrase and bounce it back and forth between them in sweet harmony. Just as they did in the Hunger Games before the mutations broke through the trees, chased her onto the Cornucopia, and slowly gnawed Cato to a bloody pulp --

 

“Want to hear them sing do a real song?” she bursts out. Anything to stop those memories. She’s on her feet, moving back into the trees, resting her hand on the rough trunk of a maple where the birds perch.

 

He watches her in awe as she begins to sing. Softly, sweetly, like her father did.

 

_“Are you, are you_

_Coming to the tree_

_Where they strung up a man they say murdered three._

_Strange things did happen here_

_No stranger would it be_

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.”_

 

Peeta’s eyes are wide. The mockingjays start to alter their song, copying hers.

 

“ _Are you, are you_

_Coming to the tree_

_Where the dead man called out for his love to flee._

_Strange things did happen here_

_No stranger would it be_

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.”_

 

He looks like he’s completely in awe of her. She has to look away.

 

“ _Are you, are you_

_Coming to the tree._

_Where I told you to run, so we’d both be free._

_Strange things did happen here_

_No stranger would it be_

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.”_

 

He motions around, up to the trees. The birds are silent. Just like they used to stop and listen to her father.

 

“ _Are you, are you_

_coming to the tree_

_Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me_

_Strange things did happen here_

_No stranger would it be_

_If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.”_

 

She glances around, thinking of her father. Notices that she’s been recorded this whole time. And Peeta has tears running down his cheeks. She hates herself, for a moment. No doubt, she’s dredged up some horrible memory for him. He spent more time around 12 than she did after all the new Peacekeepers came around. Did he see someone he loved with a rope around their neck?

 

He stands up, comes over to her, and wraps his arms around her, holding her tightly against his body. She thinks back to when they first started . . . she’s not sure what. Did they ever really date? About telling him that she had to leave. That she would never be around. That he had to move on. That he should _run_ , essentially.

 

Plutarch says that they’re a _hit_. Beetee managed to hack the Capitol feed and play the song. She didn’t see the final cut – she doesn’t even really want to – but it seemed to work. They say that it makes her more sympathetic. That it _humanizes_ her.

 

It’s as if the propos are kicked into overdrive in return for her request for her family being filled.

She didn’t realize that she hadn’t already come across as _human_. But either way, she and Peeta are in high demand. He stands by her side – silent, a symbol in his own right while she recites line after line that they feed her, either through the piece in her ear or on a screen.

 

Like, for instance, we _fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice_. It doesn’t work very well. But it’s okay. She manages.

 

“They want to hear more from the boy!” Plutarch says. Katniss thinks that it’s interesting that Lavinia isn’t wanted on camera. She’s certainly beautiful enough. “They want to know how you two met. How he feels about you.”

 

“We didn’t meet -”

 

“Tell the camera. Not us. And at least pretend like you’re telling us what he would have you say.”

 

She blushes, but turns to look at Peeta. He looks a little astounded, and then motions as if he’s outlining something about a foot long.

 

“What?” she asks.

 

He lifts his hands and mimes taking a bite of something.

 

“The bread!” she says. He looks pleased. “We didn’t officially meet until I thanked him for the bread. Like I said earlier..”

 

He gestures towards himself. “You,” she says, and he nods, and then grinds his fist into his open palm. “Sorry. What?”

 

He does it again, a few times. Even pretends to put something there.

 

“Smash?” she asks. “Crush?”

 

He nods again, and then gestures towards her, then does the entire process again for good measure. _I. Crush. You. I. Crush. You._

 

“You had . . . Peeta,” she says, her voice softening. “You had a crush on me?”

 

He nods.

 

“How long?”

 

He hesitates, and then sighs. As if he doesn’t know how to say it. Plutarch claims that paper and pen is _cheating_ and that it takes away from the appeal of all of this. Then he holds up four fingers.

 

“Four?”

 

He nods, and then spells more letters out on his hand, just the way that Lavinia does.

 

 _E - V - E - R._  Four. Ever. Forever. Forever?

 

“Forever?” she asks. He looks shy, but nods.

 

“When did forever start?” Cressida prompts, and then nods towards Katniss pointedly. She has to ask, so that they can edit it later.

 

“Forever?” Katniss asks again. “When did forever start?”

 

Peeta bites his lower lip. Then he pantomimes reading a book.

 

“Reading? School?”

 

He nods, and then holds up one finger. And then pantomimes reading the book again.

 

“First? First grade?”

 

He nods, and then thinks better of it. Holding up a finger again.

 

“First . . . the first day of school?”

 

He nods.

 

“You had a crush on me since the first day of school?” she asks, because this sounds so bizarre that she needs validation. He nods. “Wow. Okay.”

 

He motions, pulling down on either side of his head. Two braids? Then he nods towards her.

 

“I had two braids.”

 

He nods, then stands up very straight, puts his fingers by his mouth, and then wiggles his fingers, pulling them further and further away from his mouth. Then he frowns and touches the base of his throat.

 

“I . . . sang?” she guesses. She did sing, that first day of school. But it’s sort of surprising that Peeta would remember. He nods, though. Eager. “So . . . what? You just didn’t notice any other girl?”

 

He smirks and waves his hand dismissively. She’s going to have to ask him about it later. When they’re allowed to use pen and paper to communicate with each other.

 

“So that’s why you didn’t mind me kissing you?”

 

He shrugs and then smiles, somewhat sly, motioning to his chest, his lips, and then her.  
  
“Oh. _You_ kissed _me_?” she asks, laughing. “Fair enough.”  


  
  
Figuring out what he means can get frustrating, sometimes, but also rewarding, when they work out a hard word and she’s rewarded with a grin. Or when she gets it so wrong that he rolls his eyes. It turns into something like charades. At first, she feels guilty for thinking of it like a game. But then he laughs, and she realizes that there are much worse games to play.  


                                                                                                                          **END PART TWO**


	3. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE:**

 

The first time he _really_ kisses her again is the night that she asks if he’d like to come back to Twelve with her. Neither of them have much faith in an _afterwards_ , but the little bit that they can muster pays off.

 

It’s not like it isn’t _hard_ , making a life together. There are days when she doesn’t want to get out of bed and nights where he wakes her up screaming and groaning and making other noises that he doesn’t allow to slip out during the day. The worst night is when he tries to speak when he’s still half asleep. It ends with them both crying.

 

But there are good days, too. Days when they know what the other is thinking. Days when they work out a new, shortened version of one of their signals. She laughed for a good five minutes when he showed her the sign he came up with for her name. The three fingered salute served as it for a while, but they decided that it worked better for _mockingjay_ – and after everything, she never wanted to be associated with that again. What he came up with was him putting on an exaggerated scowl and pantomiming shooting an arrow.

 

Prim adores him, as well. She puts in much more effort than his family does to learn his language. Even finds books that are mere relics of research from before the dark days. About _sign language_. It doesn’t work quite as well for Peeta – they like their signs enough. But they accept the old versions of some words that are harder to come up with. Like _thank you_ , for instance. And she much prefers his version of _I love you_. The one where he holds her hand over his heart and closes his eyes.

 

It takes a while for her to say it out loud, but that’s because doing it his way seems so perfect.

  
**THE END.**


End file.
